Love Again (37 page)

‘If I had ever read Henry James.’

‘In your heart of hearts you think of me as immoral.’

‘I don’t want to know what you think of me.’

‘Good. And now I’m going to bed.’ She got up, and he grabbed her hand. Pulling her hand away from his hand tore out great slabs of her heart. So it felt. He leaped up. He held her, still did not kiss her mouth, but his lips touched her cheek, sending fire all through her (sending
what
?), and her lips were on his hair. Soft hair…

‘Good night,’ she said briskly, and went upstairs.

She sat at her window, utterly overthrown. The sky was full of moonlight, so she saw as her sight cleared. Words welled up in her. She found herself sitting (with her eyes shut, for the moonlight was too empty and heartless), feeling the sweet touch of his hair on her mouth, while she muttered, ‘God, how I did love you, my little brother, how I did love you.’ Astonishment pulled her eyes open. But it was not now she could attend to what the words were telling her. She lay on her bed and wept, most bitterly. Well, that was better than what lay in wait for her. Tears and even bitter tears are not the country of grief.

She woke late, was late at the breakfast table. Stephen had come
in to look for his sons, for he wanted them to have a shooting lesson. Benjamin sat over coffee. He had been waiting for her. It was his turn to look ironical: he believed her to have been kept late in town by attractive temptations. Henry came in, just after she did, poured coffee, brought the cup and himself to the chair next to hers. He did not look at her. She did not look at him.

Benjamin said, ‘I’ve got to leave at two, if I’m going to catch my plane.’

Stephen said, ‘Then I suggest Sarah shows you around the place a bit.’

Benjamin said, ‘If Sarah’s got time.’

‘Of course I’ve got time,’ said Sarah, but it was after a pause, for she did not immediately hear him.

‘And Henry, perhaps you and your wife would have dinner with us? It’s not too bad at The Blue Boar. The show’ll be over by ten, and we can be in town by half past.’

‘We’d love to,’ said Henry. ‘It might be a bit late for Joseph, but he’ll manage. He’s used to late nights.’

Stephen had not thought the child would be at the dinner, and now he remarked, ‘I’m sure Norah would keep an eye on him for you.’

‘I don’t think he’d let me go. He hasn’t seen me for a month.’

‘Just as you think best. I’ll book. And Sarah—you too, of course.’

Here his boys appeared, and he said to them, ‘Come on, then, there’s good chaps. Run and get the target.’

The four went off.

Sarah found she could not drink her coffee. Her mouth was already bitter with loss. She said to Benjamin, ‘Shall we go?’ Benjamin stood up, and this tall and solid man, in his immaculate, impeccable, improbably perfect creamy linen, succeeded in making the delightful old room seem shabby. He enquired too politely of Henry, ‘Do you want to join us?’

‘I’ve got things to do,’ said Henry.

Benjamin and Sarah set off to stroll around the estate. They took paths as they came to them, sat on benches to admire views, found a field with horses in it, a dozen or so lazing under a willow near a stream. The horses watched the two to see if they were bearing titbits, then lost interest. A field yellow with grain and so smooth it seemed to invite them to stroke it slanted to a sheet of blue sky. In an enormous shed, or workshop, a harvester like an infinitely magnified insect stood throbbing while two young men in smart blue overalls leaned over it with cans of oil.

This is the last day, the last day—beat through Sarah. Landscape, sky, horses, and harvester were all Henry, Henry. The shocking egotism of love had emptied her of anything but Henry. She told herself that Benjamin deserved at least politeness, and tried to chat suitably, but she knew that her words kept fading into inattention, and then silence.

Benjamin began to entertain her, remembering how successful this had been in Belles Rivières, with ‘projects’.

‘How does this grab you, Sarah? A Kashmiri lake, an exact replica, with houseboats, musicians, the boatmen imported from Kashmir. It’ll be in Oregon. Plenty of water—we need the right kind of lake.’

‘It certainly grabs me,’ said Sarah, knowing she sounded indifferent.

‘Good. And what about a development of a machine that emits negative ions? It hangs from a moveable stand so you can push it from room to room. Dust is attracted to it and falls into a flat tray under the machine. After an hour or so there is very little dust in the air.’

‘That one certainly grabs me. No housework.’

‘It was my wife’s idea. She was working for a firm that makes ionizers. She’s a physicist. She’s developing the machine.’

‘You can sell me one any time.’

‘I’ll get her to send you one.’

‘Was the Kashmiri lake your wife’s idea?’

‘We had the idea together. We were in Kashmir three years ago—before all the fighting, that kind of thing. I put it to a hotel group we are interested in, and they liked it.’

‘You sound as if you think it is a little frivolous.’

‘Perhaps I did, at first. But my ideas about what is frivolous and what isn’t seem to have changed.’ Here he would have liked to exchange with her a look deeper than words, but she could not afford to let her eyes meet his. Swords seemed to stab into her eyes, which might easily dissolve and flow down her cheeks.

They walked towards a group of trees from where voices and an occasional gunshot emanated. They stood among trees and looked down into a glade. In the middle of this grassy space stood a thick wooden post, which, because of the times we live in, had to make them think of a man or woman with bandaged eyes, waiting to be shot. Rather old-fashioned? Did a post belong to an older and more formal, even more civilized, time? On the post was nailed a home-made target. Some yards away from it, below them but to the left, were Stephen, his three sons, two other boys, and two girls.

Against an oak tree leaned an assortment of guns. The scene was remarkable because of its combination of the casual and even amateur—the home-made target and Stephen’s and the children’s clothes—and the strict rituals of the shooting.

The children stood in a group a few paces behind a boy who was holding a gun: he had just finished his turn and was taking it back to the little armoury by the tree. They were restraining the two red setters who were excitedly moving about, their tails sweeping the grass. The child whose turn had come to shoot was being led by Stephen to the tree, where a weapon suitable for his age and degree of skill was carefully chosen. Every movement was monitored by Stephen: barrel tilted down, hold it like this, walk like this. When the boy was in place at the point they shot from, Stephen stood just
behind him and a little to one side, issuing instructions, though what he said could not be heard from this distance. The boy carefully raised the rifle, aimed, shot. A black hole appeared on the target, slightly off centre of the bull’s-eye. ‘Well done’ was probably said, for the boy joined the group, looking pleased.

Now a girl of about twelve went with Stephen to the tree. She chose a rifle, without guidance, strolled to the right place with Stephen, who was much less careful with her than with the boy, then aimed, then fired. Apparently it was a bull’s-eye, for the target didn’t change. The children emitted appreciative cries, and Stephen laid his hand briefly on her shoulder. The dogs barked and bounded. She rejoined the group, and another boy, Edward, Stephen’s youngest, went to the tree with his father. What he was handed seemed to be an air gun. This time Stephen monitored every little movement: position of the forward hand, set of the left shoulder…of the right shoulder…position of the head…of the feet. Intense concentration. The shot appeared as a black hole on the edge of the white square with its concentric rings. The group was so hard at work no one noticed the two watchers, who moved on.

‘I would like to think we took as much trouble teaching our children to shoot. I suppose it shows ignorance, but why do they need to know how to shoot in this green and peaceful land?’

‘It’s a social skill.’

‘And the girls too?’

‘One has to remember whom a girl might marry—I’m quoting.’

Benjamin duly smiled.

‘You see, there would never have been any need for my daughter to learn to shoot.’ As he seemed puzzled: ‘We aren’t aristocrats.’

‘But surely it might come in useful? Didn’t you say she lives in California?’

‘Not this kind of shooting. Those children will never shoot at anything that isn’t pheasant or grouse or deer. If there isn’t a war, that is.’

‘I have to confess there are times when this country seems an anachronism.’

‘When I visit your Kashmiri lake in Oregon I’ll remind you of that.’

He laughed. She was so far from laughing she could have fallen and lain weeping on the grass. They finished the tour and then he said he might as well be off. She accompanied him to his car. Guilt caused her to be effusive. She could hear herself making conversation, but she hardly knew what. He said he would be in England again in November. Off he roared in his powerful car. To the airport. Then to California. To the pleasurable work of financing attractive ideas and then watching them become realities. A modern magician.

Only Stephen and Sarah were having lunch. Henry had gone to meet his wife and son. Elizabeth and Norah were visiting friends. The company had hired a coach to take them around the Cotswold villages.

Their food remained untouched on their plates.

‘Sarah, I know I’m a bore, but I must ask you…when your husband died, did you grieve for him—that sort of thing?’

‘I’ve been asking myself that. I was unhappy, very. But how I wonder…What else have I not
really
grieved about? I mean, a proper allowance of grief. I see you are still consulting your textbooks?’

‘Yes. But behind this line of thought is an assumption. If you don’t feel the right emotion at the right time, it accumulates. Well, it seems pretty bogus to me.’

‘But how does one know?’

‘Why didn’t you marry again?’

‘You forget, I had two small children.’

‘That wouldn’t stop me if I wanted a woman.’

‘But we didn’t know each other then.’

He allowed this a smile, made an impatient movement with his hand, but then was overtaken by a laugh. ‘A pity we haven’t fallen in love with each other,’ he said. Here the faintest cloud of reminiscent anxiety crossed his face, but she reassured him with a shake of the head. ‘Because we are really so extraordinarily…compatible.’

‘Ah, but that would be too sensible.’ Then she faced him with ‘But I’ve been remembering something. When I had love affairs, I never took him to my bedroom. The bed I shared with my husband. Always the spare room. Then one of them made a point of it. He said, “I’m sick of being the guest. You’re still married, did you know that?” And that was it. He left.’

‘You were very fortunate, Sarah. At first I think Elizabeth and I did pretty well, but never—’

‘Would you say those two women are married?’

‘Yes, I would. They certainly exclude everyone else.’ His voice was full of hurt. A noisy wasp was investigating a puddle of mayonnaise on a plate. This gave him the excuse to put a knife blade under it and get up to shake it into the garden. He came back, having determined to go on, and went on. ‘That includes the children.’ A pause. ‘Elizabeth was never a maternal woman. She never pretended to be. Why should women be? A lot aren’t.’ A pause. ‘I try to make it up to the children.’

‘I think Norah would like to be more of a mother to the children.’

His face showed this was not a new thought to him. ‘Well, I’m not stopping her.’ He pushed away his plate, chose a peach from a bowl, and methodically cut it up. ‘Believe it or not, I’m sorry for her. Norah, I mean. She’s a sort of cousin of Elizabeth’s. She was down on her luck—her marriage went wrong.’

They let the subject go. There are people who seem to compel heartlessness or at least neglect. Everything, everybody, would always seem more important than Norah.

‘When are you leaving, Sarah?’

‘Tomorrow. Jean-Pierre’s coming to tonight’s performance. And we shall discuss everything in London.’

‘I’m coming to London too.’

‘You’re going to leave…Susan? I wouldn’t have the strength of mind.’

‘Nothing to do with strength of mind.’ He sprinkled sugar on the melting yellow pieces of peach, picked up his spoon, set it down, pushed the plate away. ‘The one thing I didn’t bargain for was that Julie would dwindle into a good fuck. You’re a good fuck, she says. I can’t say I’m not flattered.’ Here he smiled at her, a real, affectionate smile, all of him there. ‘She’s a hard little thing. But she doesn’t know it. She keeps saying that I’m sexist. With a coquettish giggle. I told her there was nothing new about her ideas. Women have always agreed that a man must be redeemed by the love of a good woman. She gave me a real curtain lecture, the full feminist blast. The trouble is, you see, she’s pretty stupid.’

Another wasp, or the same one, came to the cut-up peach and began to drown in melted sugar. He left it to its fate.

‘Sarah, my life doesn’t add up to anything—no, listen. If I’d earned the money, it would be a different matter. My grandfather earned it all.’

She was too surprised to speak.

‘I envy Benjamin. He uses money.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I keep things going, anyone could do it.’ He got up. ‘I told the boys I’d take them riding.’

‘I saw you this morning teaching them to shoot.’

‘If one only knew what sort of life they should be educated for. I wish I knew. They learn all the new things at school—computers. As well as the usual things. James can drive. He can use maps and a compass. They can shoot. They can ride. I’ll make sure they won’t be dependent on craftsmen to do their plumbing for them—that
kind of thing. They aren’t artistic at all, not musical. They do well at games at school. That’s still important.’

‘Do they know how to read?’

‘A good question. But that’s asking a lot these days. James has some books in his room. Norah still reads to the younger ones. But perhaps shooting will turn out to be the most useful thing in the end. Who knows?’